The wires must have crossed.
“Finger, a little finger or an index finger … he says he can let you have one.”
Hell, that’s a curious sort of conversation to hold; that’s a rum thing to be selling.
Tokimoto’s curiosity was aroused, he held his breath to listen.
“Then how much can you buy it for, one finger?” This time a different voice, quite distinct.
“I think about …” the faint voice again, “make a fine show … cut … with a knife … a lecture …” were the only disconnected snatches of talk he could catch.
Then again came the distinct voice:
“Anything up to 100 can go down as expenses to the Cultural Club. … No, no, not over the phone. You’d better come to the compound.”
“All right. … I’ll bring the man with me. …”
Tokimoto could hear no more. What the dickens was the connection between the finger and the Cultural Club? Then he remembered he had work to do. He realized that the hand holding the receiver was cold.
The persistent moaning of the wires assailed his ears.
The Cultural Club and the fingers … he couldn’t forget them. Which Cultural Club? Their Cultural Club? The one for Communication Department workers, of course, couldn’t have any connection with fingers. Could it be the Cultural Club attached to the I.T.M.B. (Imperial Tobacco Monopoly Bureau)? Quite possible, there might
